


The First Day

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1st person pov, First Time, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Romance, Slash, Watersports, bladder desperation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-06 00:05:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time John Watson fell for a man, the first time Sherlock Holmes ever let anyone see him when he's truly, truly desperate to pee.</p>
<p>This is a sequel to 'April Showers' but it can be read as stand alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Day

**Author's Note:**

> Please see the warnings above, if you don't like it please don't read it, otherwise enjoy!
> 
> This hasn't been beta read, so please accept my apologies for any mistakes.
> 
> There may be just one more story in this series, but I'm not sure if it's going to happen as yet.

It isn’t John’s hold on his arm that freezes him into place. Sherlock is certain, almost certain, that he could break out of that vice-like grip if he wanted to.  It’s the look in John’s eyes, pupils blown wide, too wide to blame on the twilight shadows in the room.  He isn’t drunk and John doesn’t take drugs. This is something else, something unforeseen. It irritates him to think that he hasn’t noticed it before, that this fascination has somehow slipped under his radar.

“Wait.” John’s nervous, his tongue flicks over his lips.  “Can you hold it?”

Sherlock shivers.  He needs to piss so badly.  If he waits, if he succumbs to the lure of the lust in John’s eyes, he won’t be able to hide his desperation for much longer.  No one has ever seen him like that, cursing, whimpering, bent over at the waist with his legs twisted together.  Is John going to be the first? Does he really trust him that much? 

“Why do you want me to?” he asks in a whisper that is too low, too breathless.  He wants to kiss John’s forehead; there above the right eyebrow where there’s a tiny white scar, an almost invisible millimetre that’s just meant to be touched with the tip of his tongue.

“Fuck knows! I’ve had a couple of girlfriends who let me watch them taking a piss and that did it for me, but I never thought that a man could turn me on.  I was an army doctor. I’ve seen more men pissing than you’ve had hot dinners and nothing, zero, zilch, but you…you’re something else.” 

John is looking at him as if he’s the most amazing thing in the world and Sherlock likes that. He likes it even better when John doesn’t tell him to fuck off when he presses his lips to his temple. “What else?” he murmurs against soft skin.

“Kinky. Sexy.” And John’s kissing him, kissing his mouth, lips parting, tongues entwining.  He’s cradling Sherlock’s head in his hands, no longer holding him in place so that he can’t fly off to the loo.

When they draw back a little Sherlock discovers how nice it is to be able to rest his forehead on John’s shoulder. He can feel John’s hands on his back, the warmth of his cheek on the crown of his head and there’s a deep throbbing ache in his bladder. Sherlock can’t think of anything more wonderful or anywhere else he would rather be than here in John’s arms.

John’s rubbing his mouth over his hair. There are so many nerve endings in the lips, so many sweet kisses. He talking now, all disjointed and throaty. “All those weeks ago…at the factory, that wasn’t a piss, that was a bloody waterfall and your face…I bet you look like that when you come.”

“I didn’t realise you were watching, you had your back to me.” They’re kissing again and Sherlock no longer cares if his powers of observation let him down that day, not if this is the result.

“I took a quick look when you had your eyes closed. It was that expression that gave you away and the fact that you were rock hard afterwards.”  John’s hand slides over the front of Sherlock’s trousers. “You can’t hide this, not in these spray-on pants you wear.”  His fingers flex delightfully and then he goes very still. “What the hell are you doing to me?”

Sherlock goes for the jugular. “Turning you queer.”

John doesn’t flinch. “You’re doing a good job at it, queer and kinky.” He squeezes the bulge under his hand. “How long have you been holding it?”

“Since just after breakfast.” It’s late evening, the last sunset shadows are slicing across the floor. “I can’t last much longer.”

“Getting desperate, are we?” John’s grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Sherlock dares to let himself hope that John won’t back out, not now they’ve come this far.  He leans into that warm, strong hand at his groin. “No, I am desperate. I’ve been desperate for hours.”

“Oh, Christ!” 

He wants everything, to fuck and be fucked, to piss out a river and to hold on until the intense pressure in his abdomen finally defeats him.   Sherlock buries his face in the nape of John’s neck. “I need, oh god, I need…” 

“To piss.” John finishes the sentence for him between little sharp nips to his earlobe.

“To change into my pyjamas.”

“What for?” John murmurs into his ear.

“These trousers have to be dry cleaned and if I have an accident...well, even I don’t have the nerve to explain to the girl behind the counter at Johnson’s why they reek of piss.”

“Don’t look at me like that, I’m not taking them to the cleaners for you and if you piss on the carpet you’re explaining it to Mrs Hudson.”

“I did once, she thought that I was stoned, but I wasn’t.”

“She’ll murder you if she finds out.” John chuckles.  “I’ll get your jammies for you, we don’t want you ruining your fancy pants, do we?”

Sherlock feels bereft and chilled when John steps away.  Without the distraction of John’s kisses, without his hand between his legs, Sherlock’s body reminds him forcefully just how desperate he is.  He bites back a groan and shifts restlessly from foot to foot. It isn’t enough. His need to piss intensifies and he bends over the desk with his legs crossed at the thigh. Sherlock jiggles about, fighting the overwhelming urge to just let go.

“Are you okay?” John asks. He has Sherlock’s favourite pyjamas draped over his arm.

Sherlock straightens up carefully. “Just about.”  He’s sweating and his back aches.

John’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Are you in pain?”

“No.” Discomfort isn’t pain and he doesn’t want John going all medical on him. He doesn’t need a lecture about bladder infections and possible kidney damage.  “I’m absolutely dying to piss. It’s fucking killing me, but I love it, nothing else turns me on in quite the same way.”

“You’re a bloody kinky sod,” John says affectionately.

“It takes one to know one.” Sherlock perches on the edge of the desk with his legs tightly crossed. “Oh, fuck.”

“One minute.” John kisses the crown of his head, nuzzles his dark hair and then he goes over to the windows to draw the curtains.

Typical John, worrying about what the neighbours might think if they were to glimpse anything untoward. Yet when John flicks on a couple of lamps and its just them in the amber light Sherlock’s glad that the world’s shut firmly out.  He doesn’t want to share this with anyone else.

John’s back, standing in front of him with a very respectable bulge in his jeans. Sherlock reaches out to touch it with the hand that isn’t clamped between his own legs. Now it’s John who moans, pushing his groin into Sherlock’s palm and they’re kissing again.

A sharp contraction in his bladder makes Sherlock gasp.  His head jerks back and he clings to John’s bicep, trying desperately to hold himself together.

“Easy, love, just breathe.” John’s stroking the back of his neck and the urge eases just a little. “It’s okay, everything’s fine.”

Sherlock tries to tell him that it’s not fine, that everything’s spiralling out of his control. His body is screaming for relief and Mrs Hudson’s carpet is doomed because he’ll never be able to reach the loo.  Sherlock curses. He wants John, John’s mouth, John’s cock, but suddenly it’s far too late for any of that. 

Sherlock buries his face in John’s shirt. “I can’t hold it any more,” he whispers brokenly. “”Oh, god, I’m going to wet myself!” Sherlock tugs at his belt. “John, I need to go now!”

“I know, love.” John strokes his sweat damp hair.  “I know what you need.”

John sounds so calm, so reassuring and then somehow everything is fine because everything is John. John’s unbuckling his belt and sliding his zipper down and Sherlock sobs with relief when the constriction around his cock and bladder eases. A second later he cries out in alarm as a powerful jet of piss soaks into his underwear.

“It’s all right, love.” John kisses his forehead.

John’s arm is around his waist and he’s easing him off the desk, down onto the floor. Sherlock realises that he’s kneeling on the folded up blanket that usually hangs from the back of John’s chair. John’s hand curls around his cock, lifting it free and the gentle movement makes it splatter piss.  Sherlock moans, torn between the intensity of his need to go and the humiliation of being unable to control himself.  He bits his lip, drawing blood, but his bladder spasms painfully and the slow trickle becomes an unstoppable torrent.  

John talks him through it, kisses him through it, until his cries of anguish turn into sighs of relief and joy.  

When it finally ends he slumps into John’s waiting arms. “So good,” Sherlock whispers into his neck. “I wanted to go so much.”

John’s fingers glide over his abdomen, over muscles that still ache from hours of tension and down into the tangle of his wet pubic hair.

“Yes?” John whispers into the shell of his ear.

Sherlock nods “Yes.” He’s exhausted and his cock is very sensitive, almost as if he’s already come, but it’s also extremely hard. Sherlock arches his spine. “Please.”

John chuckles. His hand closes around Sherlock’s erection. He kisses his closed eyelids and open lips. Then he starts to pump his cock.  Sherlock groans, drowning in sensation, drowning in the dark because it’s too much effort to keep his eyes open. There is a feedback loop of sound ringing his ears; his own little cries, John’s rapid breathing and the squelching of John’s fist on his piss drenched cock.  Sherlock shudders. He wouldn’t ever win any prizes for endurance after a lengthy holding session and this is going to be super quick.

Sherlock comes apart seconds later, shaking himself to pieces in John’s arms.

John hugs him tightly. Then he gently lowers him onto the blanket with a cushion tucked under his head. Sherlock cuddles down on the blanket, not caring that it’s soaked with his own piss. He could sleep forever.

“I’m sorry,” John says and his voice is gravel and glass. “I have to…”

The sound a zip being torn open rouses Sherlock from his stupor. He hasn’t the energy to move, but he forces his eyes open. John’s kneeling beside him, fisting himself frantically, with his head thrown back and his lip crushed between his teeth.  Sherlock manages to reach out to him. He clasps John’s thigh and John moans, gripping his hand tightly. John’s other hand moves even faster. His grunts reach a crescendo and Sherlock watches his come spurt and spill over their jointed hands.  He thinks that it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

Sherlock’s hand slides down John’s leg.  His eyes close again and he drifts towards sleep.

It’s John who hauls him up off the floor, who gets him cleaned up and into the pyjamas he never had time to put on before he wet himself. Sherlock sways on his feet, dizzy with exhaustion and only mumbles a half-hearted protest when John tucks him into bed.  He’s asleep before John turns the light out.

When he wakes up John’s standing by the bed, a silhouette in the never-quite-dark of street lamps and illuminated shop signs that fill central London. There’s enough light for a sleepy Sherlock to see that John’s only wearing his pyjama bottoms.

“Shove over,” John says awkwardly, as if he half expects Sherlock to refuse.

Sherlock isn’t about to do that. He rolls over onto one side of the bed and waits while John clambers in beside him. John thumps the pillow into shape and flops back onto it with a sigh.

“God, what an evening,” John says. “I certainly never expected that when I woke up this morning.”

Now it’s Sherlock who’s unsure of himself. John has seen him as no one else ever has, broken apart by a simple biological function, half-out of his head with desperation and lust.

“What’s wrong?” John asks him quietly.

 “Is it okay?” Sherlock whispers.

“Of course it is, more than okay.” John traces the line of Sherlock’s jaw with the tip of his index finger. “I’m not going to put it on the blog or tease you about it.” He chuckles. “I’m in no position to cast aspersions anyway. I don’t know what kind of pervert it makes me, but I would have fucked you through the floor if you hadn’t been so bloody knackered.”

“I’m always shattered afterwards.” Sherlock snuggles up to John, who wraps his arm around his shoulders. “How long was I asleep?”

“About an hour while I was cleaning up after you.” John stretches and yawns. “The blanket’s in the washing machine; some of it had soaked through to the carpet, but it scrubbed up okay and I’ve left the windows open to air the room out.  I’ll take your trousers to the cleaners tomorrow.”

“You said that you wouldn’t.”

John shrugs, a ripple of muscle under Sherlock’s cheek. “I’ll say that a mate of mine got rat-arsed on his stag night and pissed himself in the street.” Sherlock jolts against him. “Oh, so you like that idea, do you? Well, remember that it’s an excuse I can only use once.”

“There are lots of dry cleaners in London.”

John slaps him lightly on the arm. “Don’t push your luck.”  He rubs his palm over the Sherlock’s forearm and presses his lips to his brow.

“I wanted to suck you off,” Sherlock says after a little while, “but I couldn’t hold it long enough to give you a blow job.”

“That’s one you owe me then,” John says happily. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not surprised that you lost it after hanging on for all those hours. I’ve have pissed myself long before you did.”

 “I’ve had plenty of practice.” Sherlock finds John’s left nipple and starts rolling the little peak of flesh between his fingers. “I discovered that I liked it a long time ago and I’ve been playing hold-it games ever since. When I was about eighteen I tried to wait for a full twenty-four hours, but I couldn’t last through the night and I ended up soaking the bed about two o’clock in the morning.”

“God that must have been hot.” John tilts Sherlock’s head up and kisses him passionately. “I would have loved to have seen that.” He rests his forehead on Sherlock’s temple. “I assume no one ever found out?”

“Mycroft did.”

“Bloody hell! He didn’t walk in on you while you were going, did he?”

“No, he didn’t,” Sherlock says sharply. He tweaks John’s nipple harder than strictly necessary. “It was afterwards. I was down in the utility room having a fight with the washing machine and he came in to see what all the noise was about. If you want the truth I was in a bit of panic and I ended up telling him everything.”

“What did he do?”

“He read me the riot act and then he covered up for me. I’m still not quite sure why.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot. You’re his kid brother. Mycroft loves you, although he’d die before he would ever admit it.”

Sherlock doesn’t contradict him.

“You’re the only one who’s ever actually seen me going,” Sherlock says.  “I have to be careful because when I’m really desperate and I finally start to piss it’s strictly a one way street. Anything could happen, anyone could walk into the room, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, even Sally Donovan, and I just wouldn’t be able to stop until I’d finished going.”

“Not Donovan, she’d only take the piss…take the mickey,” John amends between giggles, “and then I’d have to strangle the bitch.” He isn’t laughing now.

Sherlock props himself up on his elbow so that he’s looking down into John’s face.  “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“Not normally, no, you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, but not when you’re in that state.” John pulls him back down into his arms. “That’s when you need me to watch your back.”

“My knight in shining armour,” Sherlock says in his best gay-camp voice.

“Very tarnished armour actually. We’re going to egg each other on to do all sorts of stupid things.”  John threads his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Even this turns me on, I want to bury my cock your curls and…” John turns his head. There’s something dark and unholy in his eyes. “And I want to hear you beg, down on your knees, please, John, please let me piss.” He laughs self-consciously. “Christ, you touch things in me that I never even imagined were there.”

“Good,” says Sherlock. He’s smiling.

“Oh, fuck,” says John. “What the hell have I got myself into?”

They both laugh, giggling and kissing and making love under the duvet until Sherlock announces that he has to go again. John takes his hand and leads him into the kitchen where he holds Sherlock’s cock while he pisses into the sink. Then John leans over and turns the tap on to wash it all away.

Sherlock watches the liquid swirling away down the plughole. “I could have waited,” he says.

“Not today.” John kisses his way down his neck. “No holding it today, your system needs time to recover.” He licks Sherlock’s collar bone with long cat-like swipes of his tongue. “Just let me know whenever you need to go and I’ll sort it all out for you.”

Sherlock doesn’t point out that he’s quite capable of going without any assistance. Why should he? After all it isn’t as if he actually wants to piss without John’s help.

 


End file.
